I can’t come if you tell me to. Something about the words makes it filthy and I’m transported. Girls are flashing their assholes and biting their lips somewhere and I’m dry as a corpse now.

There was a time I wanted to have a baby with you until the assholes, and the lip biting, and the blowjob history, and the trust smashed in like a corner shop window, midwinter.

Don’t you know I’m not present. I’m no present for anyone. I’m a bored housewife without the house or the wife part. Waiting for the postman to ring the door bell and sort me out. Send in that long-awaited rush of blood. Give me a hit. Pull me apart, shine up the rust, and put me back together.

He unbuttoned the top button of my shirt and pushed me down into the seat of the chair. I didn’t know what was about to happen. I didn’t care. Categorically speaking I was a non-mover. Perhaps I mean in terms of where I was going in my life, but more likely I mean physically at that moment. In that moment, when he looked me directly in the eyes, he glared into my increasingly small yet almond-shaped eyes, and he said, “you are like no one I’ve ever met before”. Immediately, and without true consent from the reasonable-side of my brain, I calmly said, “you are like every other person on the planet and this is why I feel safe with you”. There was no show to put on. No Facade. It felt empty. I had come looking for him, and this emptiness meant he was now looking for me. I tried not to think too much about this sunken feeling and how ordinary he was as he undid the rest of the buttons on my shirt.